


all the wounds we do not speak of

by ikuzonos



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Multi, i don't have a fucking clue what this is supposed to be but take it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 17:49:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11166957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikuzonos/pseuds/ikuzonos
Summary: or: members of the Nine-Nine that Jake Peralta has kissed.





	all the wounds we do not speak of

Gina is the first, when he is nine years old and being a police officer is one of the farthest things from his mind; an image that only occasionally crosses his mind when watching some television show with his mom.

The kiss is quiet, a peck on the cheek while snuggled under three warm blankets, a movie that he can't remember the name of playing in the background. It's idyllic. It's childlike. 

She taps him gently on the nose, "What's wrong, Pineapples?"

Jake murmurs back, "D'you think we'll get married some day?"

"Not on your life," Gina replies, glassy gaze flickering back to the television. Nana is gone for the afternoon, and her apartment is theirs for the time being.

Jake looks back to the animated dinosaurs.

* * *

He doesn't talk about the second one under the threat of death.

Three minutes past one in the morning, Jake kisses Rosa and she feels like a volt of electricity. The exam is in nine hours and he can't remember a goddamn thing. His desk is littered with energy drinks and paper cups of coffee.

Why did he come to the academy again? Why is he so damn dedicated to this? He'd ponder the meaning of life if he could remember it.

Rosa pulls away first, then hisses, "Never speak of this. I know twelve different ways to kill you with just a pencil."

* * *

Under the law of the most sacred code of all, The Bro Code, Jake also never speaks of the time that he kissed Charles. He would vehemently deny that the situation ever occurred if confronted about it, even more than he would deny ever kissing Rosa.

He can't think of a reason that he'd want to share this memory with anyone, though. After all, why would he want to spill his best friend's dirty laundry? Charles, coming to his apartment in tears after his last divorce. Charles, sitting at his kitchen table and clutching Jake while shaking. Charles kissing him and smelling like herbs, lemon juice, and for whatever reason, toothpaste.

It's sorrowful. It's unstable. It's wet, because Charles' tears are getting on his face now.

* * *

Terry is different. It's not in a moment of panic, grief, or sheer impulsiveness. It's being taken to the Sergeant's house at two in the morning because Jake won't sleep. It's lying down on a futon couch for hours and hours, but never once closing his eyes. It's being tucked in by Terry at some point in the middle of it all.

It's the kiss on the forehead he receives, gentle and familial, like something you would get from a father (that Jake never had.)

* * *

The water in Florida tastes like metal and the air smells like sweat and citrus. The jail cell's no better, but Jake has no intention of staying there. He and Holt are going to get back to New York if it kills them. Even if he ends up as just another corpse in a bodybag, another nameless statistic in the system.

And if it takes kissing his boss, he'll do it.

And Holt is a  _storm._ He is experience and fire encompassed by soft lips and complete surprise. He is classical music and stiff formality and he is raw determination.

It's too much all at once, but those three seconds are enough to save them for the time being.

* * *

Amy Santiago is serenity and longing. She is fabric softener and pen ink under the dimmed lights of the file room, quiet and senseless, with her arm draped over his shoulder.

That's the first one that counts, Jake thinks.


End file.
